Cheaper by the Dozen

His hair was smoothed to perfection, his canvas shoes a chaste white, and he looked sporty in his linen knickers, his belted coat with a boutonniere of Queen Anne's Lace, and his ribbed, knee-length hose.
    "Gee, Daddy, you look like a groom," we told him.
    "Bride or stable?"
    "A bridegroom."
    "You don't have to tell me I'm a handsome dude," he grinned. "I've got a mirror, you know. Well, I've got to make a good impression on that new daughter of mine. What did we name her? Jane."
    At the hospital, he'd sit next to Mother's bed and discuss the work he'd planned for the autumn.
    "Now I want you to stay here until you feel good and strong. Get a good rest; it's the first rest you've had since the children started coming." And then in the same breath. "I'll certainly be glad when you're back home. I can't seem to get my work accomplished when you're not there."
    Mother thought the hospital was marvellous. "I would have wait until my dozenth baby was born to find out how much better it is to have them in a hospital. The nurses here wait on me hand and foot. You don't know what a comfort it is to have your baby in the hospital."
    "No," said Dad, "I don't. And I hope to Heaven I never find out!"
    What Mother liked best about the hospital, although she didn't tell Dad, was the knowledge that if she made any noise during the delivery, it didn't matter.
    When Dad finally drove Mother and Jane home, he lined all of us up by ages on the front porch. Jane, in her bassinet, was at the foot of the line.
    "Not a bad-looking crowd if I do say so myself," he boasted, strutting down the line like an officer inspecting his men. "Well, Lillie, there you have them, and it's all over. Have you stopped to think that by this time next year we won't need a bassinet any more? And by this time two years from now, there won't be a diaper in the house, or baby bottles, or play pens, or nipples—when I think of the equipment we've amassed during the years! Have you thought what it's going to be like not to have a baby in our room? For the first time in seventeen years, you'll be able to go to bed without setting the alarm clock for a two o'clock feeding."
    "I've been thinking about that," said Mother. "It's certainly going to be a luxury, isn't it?"
    Dad put his arm around her waist, and tears came to her eyes.
    Later that summer, when company came to call, Dad would whistle assembly and then introduce us.
    "This one is Anne," he'd say, and she'd step forward and shake bands. "And Ernestine, Martha..."
    "Gracious, Mr. Gilbreth. And all of them are yours?"
    "Hold on, now. Wait a minute." He'd disappear into the bedroom and come out holding Jane. "You haven't seen the latest model."
    But some of the enthusiasm had gone out of his tone, because he knew the latest model really was the last model, and that he would never again be able to add the clincher, which so embarrassed Mother, about how another baby was underway.

Chapter 14
Flash Powder and Funerals

    Next to motion study and astronomy, photography was the science nearest to Dad's heart. He had converted most of the two-story bam in Montclair into a photographic laboratory. It was here that Mr. Coggin, Dad's English photographer, held forth behind a series of triple-locked doors. Children made Mr. Coggin nervous, particularly when they opened the door of his darkroom when he was in the middle of developing a week's supply of film. Even in front of Dad and Mother, he referred to us as blighters and beggars. Behind their backs, he called us 'orse thieves, bloody barsteds, and worse.
    At one time, shortly after Dad had had an addition built on our cottage at Nantucket; he told Mr. Coggin:
    "I want you to go up there and get some pictures of the ell on the house."
    "Haw," said Mr. Coggin. "I've taken many a picture of the ‘ell in your 'ouse. But this will be the first time I've taken one of the 'ell on your 'ouse."
    When Mr. Coggin departed after the unfortunate debacle concerning our tonsils, a series of other professional camera-men came and went. Dad always thought, and with some justification, that none of the professionals were as good a photographer as he. Consequently, when it came to taking pictures of the family, Dad liked to do the job himself.
    He liked to do the job as often as possible, rain or shine, day or night, summer or winter, and especially on Sundays. Most photographers prefer sunlight for their pictures. But Dad liked it best when there was no sun and he had an excuse to